A.N The reviews I've added are from the last time the story was posted;
before I screwed it up! Thanks to all the people that did (and have)
reviewed, your comments are what keeps me going! Laura
************
She wants to scream.
She wants to weep, wail, sob, roar her pain at the world until it, somebody, anybody, listens.
She wants to find the bastards that did this and she wants to rip them to shreds with her bare hands, but not before making them beg and making them writhe and making them plead for mercy.
She wants to curl up in the corner and be rocked like a child and be told everything will be all right.
She wants to open her eyes and find the last four years haven't happened.
Instead she watches him breathe.
Such a small thing, a tiny motor function that is performed countless times a day, inhale, exhale, easy as that, but, still, she can't tear her eyes away from the rise and fall of his chest, can hardly bear to blink. The movement hypnotises her, lulls her, comforts her. The pain is still there, oh God it's still there, right under the surface, and so is the anger, but as long as his chest keeps moving, up and down, in and out, she can deal with it, has to deal with it because her tears, even if they're a flood, won't help him. She has to do her job and see this man as her patient and not as her friend, but it's hard, it's so damn hard, when all she wants to do is hold his hand and make everything better and never let anyone hurt him ever again.
She hadn't known who he was.
The call had come in from the Gate room and she had gone, oblivious, unsuspecting, and she had been shocked, repelled, disgusted at the sight of this man broken beyond belief, a sack of battered skin and broken bone. It was only when she had looked over and seen Jack's face, pale and shocked, and so had looked, really looked, at the man they were carrying, that she had seen a man she had already buried. She had looked again and had seen the same thing.
She had bitten her lip, hard enough to make it bleed, just to stop herself, from screaming, from calling out his name, from crying, from doing God knows what, and with the taste of copper hot in her mouth she had got him to the infirmary, got him stabilised, got him comfortable, got him safe.
Her mouth's still bleeding but there's nothing left for her to do, at least for now, all the tests done, all the labs back, the horrific truth in black and white, and that's why she watches him breathe.
Don't think. Don't think about it.
Don't think about the burns, the scars, don't think about all the times he must have called out for help and found no-one, don't think about the rescue mission that never came, don't think about the fact he was probably being tortured even as they buried his coffin, don't think that there must have been something, anything they could have done, if only someone had tried, really tried.
Just don't think at all.
Just watch him breathe.
"Doctor? Doctor Frasier? The General would like to see you in his office."
"Tell him I'll be there when I'm done here."
Her voice seems to come from a long way away, can't possibly be her talking in such a calm voice when on the inside there's just a permanent scream, can't possibly sound so detached when she can't take her eyes off his breathing. Can't possibly sound so goddamn normal when her world is shifting around her.
"He insisted, Ma'am. Said it was urgent."
She nods because it is expected, but she can't leave without touching his face. Virtually unrecognisable, yes, but warm, real, alive. Alive. Her hand is shaking. She pulls it back, curls the fingers into her palm, tries to hold onto the warmth she felt beneath her touch. Tries to tell herself that that's enough, for now, even as she whispers to him in a voice she hardly recognises as her own.
"We missed you."
And it's the truth, the simple, honest truth that makes her heart break, even as she walks away.
************
She wants to scream.
She wants to weep, wail, sob, roar her pain at the world until it, somebody, anybody, listens.
She wants to find the bastards that did this and she wants to rip them to shreds with her bare hands, but not before making them beg and making them writhe and making them plead for mercy.
She wants to curl up in the corner and be rocked like a child and be told everything will be all right.
She wants to open her eyes and find the last four years haven't happened.
Instead she watches him breathe.
Such a small thing, a tiny motor function that is performed countless times a day, inhale, exhale, easy as that, but, still, she can't tear her eyes away from the rise and fall of his chest, can hardly bear to blink. The movement hypnotises her, lulls her, comforts her. The pain is still there, oh God it's still there, right under the surface, and so is the anger, but as long as his chest keeps moving, up and down, in and out, she can deal with it, has to deal with it because her tears, even if they're a flood, won't help him. She has to do her job and see this man as her patient and not as her friend, but it's hard, it's so damn hard, when all she wants to do is hold his hand and make everything better and never let anyone hurt him ever again.
She hadn't known who he was.
The call had come in from the Gate room and she had gone, oblivious, unsuspecting, and she had been shocked, repelled, disgusted at the sight of this man broken beyond belief, a sack of battered skin and broken bone. It was only when she had looked over and seen Jack's face, pale and shocked, and so had looked, really looked, at the man they were carrying, that she had seen a man she had already buried. She had looked again and had seen the same thing.
She had bitten her lip, hard enough to make it bleed, just to stop herself, from screaming, from calling out his name, from crying, from doing God knows what, and with the taste of copper hot in her mouth she had got him to the infirmary, got him stabilised, got him comfortable, got him safe.
Her mouth's still bleeding but there's nothing left for her to do, at least for now, all the tests done, all the labs back, the horrific truth in black and white, and that's why she watches him breathe.
Don't think. Don't think about it.
Don't think about the burns, the scars, don't think about all the times he must have called out for help and found no-one, don't think about the rescue mission that never came, don't think about the fact he was probably being tortured even as they buried his coffin, don't think that there must have been something, anything they could have done, if only someone had tried, really tried.
Just don't think at all.
Just watch him breathe.
"Doctor? Doctor Frasier? The General would like to see you in his office."
"Tell him I'll be there when I'm done here."
Her voice seems to come from a long way away, can't possibly be her talking in such a calm voice when on the inside there's just a permanent scream, can't possibly sound so detached when she can't take her eyes off his breathing. Can't possibly sound so goddamn normal when her world is shifting around her.
"He insisted, Ma'am. Said it was urgent."
She nods because it is expected, but she can't leave without touching his face. Virtually unrecognisable, yes, but warm, real, alive. Alive. Her hand is shaking. She pulls it back, curls the fingers into her palm, tries to hold onto the warmth she felt beneath her touch. Tries to tell herself that that's enough, for now, even as she whispers to him in a voice she hardly recognises as her own.
"We missed you."
And it's the truth, the simple, honest truth that makes her heart break, even as she walks away.